


You're mad

by VillainousVivs



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Brotherly Angst, Dead People, Gen, Halls of Mandos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:55:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24672703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VillainousVivs/pseuds/VillainousVivs
Summary: “Oh no, you don’t,” and Fëanor decked him.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë & Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë
Comments: 7
Kudos: 87





	You're mad

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Drag0nst0rm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [You're mad【授权翻译】](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25948801) by [oliviaireth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliviaireth/pseuds/oliviaireth)



He didn’t know how long they stood there, staring at each other, but it was a while.

“Fëanor?”

He knew it must be true, because the other elf laughed, and he couldn’t think of anyone else who would laugh if they were called Fëanor. Also, their fëa smelled like smoke.

“You should see the look on your face,” said Fëanor, sounding strange.

Fingolfin considered strangling him. Tackling him. Kicking him, maybe? Or just a vindictive slap across the face. (someone had done it once, he thought foggily. And then there was a flipped table, and some shouting, maybe, though he couldn’t be sure)

In the end he settled for a punch, as hard as he could muster. Fëanor fell; and then he laughed harder.

“You’re mad,” said Fingolfin, peering down at him. He thought he would feel better, if he punched him. It didn’t make him feel anything.

“Yeah,” said Fëanor. “Did you know that your son saved mine?”

“No.” He thought about it for a while. Actually, he might’ve heard that, once, when he was still with other shades. That had been a while ago. “Yes.”

“Something about torture, an eagle, and lending of hand of sorts. Do you remember the whole story?”

Fingolfin shrugged. He thought that if he tried hard enough, it might be possible, though he didn’t see the point. They were in Mandos and their children will end up in Mandos, sooner or later, in lesser or greater grotesque fine prints. He didn’t want to know, anymore, he didn’t think.

(Maybe that was why he drifted away from the others, so their voices couldn’t bother him. Or maybe they had wanted him away from them, the kin of kinslayers, the one that had led that suicide march onto the Ice, and then left them all alone to face Morgoth. Or maybe Mando wanted him further from the newer, more talkative souls, for the sake of organisation. Or maybe he was apart from them for no reason in particular, and he was overthinking this, really, because there was no reason for him to have conscious thought at all)

In the time he spent on his tiresome thinking, Fëanor had gotten up. “Punch me again,” he said, still smelling like smoke.

“No,” Fingolfin told him. He didn’t want to talk to Fëanor, anymore; he was too bright and too loud. And mad. He inched away.

“Oh no, you don’t,” and Fëanor decked him.

Fingolfin, too stiff to fall, promptly slapped him back.

“Why did you hit me!” he yelled.

“To snap you out of this, you indignant, thankless, snail-brained bastard child!”

Fingolfin flinched, and it wasn’t because of the name-calling; Fëanor had kicked him in the shin.

_Ai_ , he thought. _That hurt!_

And then suddenly he could see his half-brother in front of him, flaming fëa and all, and realized that Fëanor had been crying.

“You’re mad,” he said, half out of reflex, half because there was nothing else to say.

Fëanor gave him a grimace--though he suspected it was meant to be a smile. “You’re awake. _Ñ_ _olo_.”

For a forever-moment, Fingolfin stared in hopes of searing this sight into his very being. Memories flooded back. His mother and father and brother and nuisance, lumped together to be called his family. His children, and lovely, lovely Anairë. Silmarils. The steel under his chin, foreign and vicious. The abrupt abdication. The more abrupt coronation. Alqualondë. Fëanor, gone ahead. The Ice. Fëanor, gone forever. Another abdication. Another coronation. War. War. War. War. War. A feeling, like the waves, like the Ice, urging him to ride, ride, ride. Seven slashes. Mandos. Sentencing. Shades. Time, in abundance, then in suffocating bulk. 

“Aye,” said Fingolfin, softly, as Fëanor wiped his eyes angrily. The tears he didn’t catch in time evaporated as his fëa pulsed with his inevitable (Adorable? Petrifying?) sniffs. “How long?” 

“Too long,” he said, and gripped Fingolfin’s wrist so tightly it burned. 

“Where are we going?” asked Fingolfin, already being dragged along to Who-Knows-Where-in-Mandos.

“Atar,” he said. “And the rest of us.”

**Author's Note:**

> UWU


End file.
